


Chrysalis

by NPennyworth



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Butterflies, Child Death, Child Neglect, Childhood Friends, Erik is a Sweetheart, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hospitals, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Seizures, kid Erik
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-28 15:21:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30141573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NPennyworth/pseuds/NPennyworth
Summary: A child watches a butterfly, makes a friend, and learns a lesson.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	Chrysalis

**Author's Note:**

> This belongs to a larger story I'm still working on, but all the backstory you need is that Erik was abandoned as a baby at a hospital. They keep waiting for health issues to pop up and nearby orphanages refuse to take him, so he kind of just grows up there. He's also not yet named Erik as that's a name he picks up later. Enjoy!

The best thing about the basement room is the little window. To look out it he has to stand on his bed and hold himself up by his arms, which start to ache after a while, but it’s worth it. The window looks out onto a little field, and although he can only see the grass and dirt and a little sliver of sky it’s more than enough. He dreams of the day when he’ll be tall enough to reach his arms out the window and feel the sun warm him. He hadn’t been warm in a very long time.

For the past few weeks he’s been watching a worm. It was very small and ugly, and then it climbed on a branch and made itself into an even uglier leaf. He’d watched, fascinated, as it had built the leaf and then crawled into it, and it hasn’t moved since. Until today, that is.

The little ugly leaf has split open, and his eyes widen as he watches something emerge. Not the worm, but a pair of lovely wings with beautiful colours. A butterfly!

“Hello,” he whispers to her, watching as she slowly unfurls her wings and perches on the outside of her leaf. “You are beautiful now, did you know that? Is that why you went in the leaf?” He then makes his voice sound smaller and squeakier, to be the butterfly. “Why yes, Monsieur! The leaf took away all my ugliness, and now I am beautiful!”

He only stops watching the butterfly when he has to, when one of the nurses comes to give him food or take him to the privy or for a bath. He watches the butterfly for two whole days as she stretches her wings and begins to fly, and has many conversations with her.

“I think you are one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen,” he tells her. “Like music, although I can only hear music. Do you like music?”

“I haven’t had the pleasure,” she tells him, and he smiles.

“Why Mlle, you must allow me to show you!” he says. “I’ve made a song for you, for your beauty.” And he hums it for her, and when she twitches one of her antennae after he finishes he takes it as her thanks.

“Music is my very best friend, next to you,” he tells her. “I can hear it all the time, even when I’m not singing or playing! But on some days, Madame Vouland lets me play the piano upstairs, if I’ve been very good.” She never lets him play as long as he’d like; he wishes he could stay there forever, making beautiful music. He wishes that he became part of the piano itself, so that if anybody looked they would see only an instrument, and then people would smile and be happy that he was there.

But maybe that last thing could happen anyways? “I bet people didn’t like you when you were a worm,” he says to the butterfly. “I bet they hated you because they thought you were ugly.” Maybe they also screamed at the sight of her, and called her disgusting, and said they wished she was dead. “But you became something beautiful,” he says. “And they were wrong to hate you.”

“One day,” he declares, “I’ll make music so beautiful people will love me. And then I’ll be beautiful too.”

* * *

He’s moved up from the basement room for “good behaviour” every week, and he almost wishes he wasn’t. He’ll get moved back in a few days anyways, and he hopes his butterfly friend won’t be gone when he returns. The hospital room doesn’t have a window, but this bed has a mattress which is fun to bounce on when nobody’s watching. And the door isn’t locked, which means that during the night if he’s very quiet he can go look around the rest of the orphanage.

That evening, after one of the nurses bids him to be good and closes the door with a shudder she probably thinks she didn’t notice, he waits until the hospital is silent before opening the door. He must be very patient, because if he opens it too quickly it will creak and he’ll be punished, so after every movement he waits several long moments to make sure nobody hears him. Finally it’s open, and he slips out and begins to move down the halls.

There are squeaky spots in the floorboards, but he pretends that he’s a great explorer going through a jungle. He must step carefully, or he will fall into a pit with snakes or quicksand. But who knows what rare treasures he’ll discover? In previous nights he’s discovered spare buttons or ribbons, sewing kits, and even a couple of toys left behind by other children. He can’t bring any of them with him, a lesson he learned after a sound beating for stealing a stuffed bear, but he can play with them before going back to his room.

There’s a whimper, and he freezes. “Is anybody there?” a little voice calls out, and he holds his breath.

“Please,” the voice asks. “I can’t see. Is anybody there?” Very slowly, he looks through the half open door into the room. There is a small shape on the bed, and despite the white gleam of bandages Erik thinks they must be lucky, because their room has a window.

“Hello,” he says, preparing to run if the person screams. But they appear to sit back in their bed, and turn their head towards him. Their head, which is covered in bandages.

“Hello,” they say, and he realizes it’s another boy, just a few years older than he is. “Who are you?”

“Jean,” he answers. It’s not really true; the nurses keep tacking on new second names, Jean Claude and Jean Phillipe and Jean Baptiste, and he thinks it’s because he keeps outgrowing them like old clothes. He never thinks of himself as Jean anything.

“I’m Marcel,” the new boy tells him. “Are you a doctor?”

“No,” he answers. “I live here.”

“Oh,” says Marcel, who then goes silent. He creeps up next to Marcel’s bed, moving a little less silently so Marcel can hear where he is, and stares at him,

“You’re hurt,” he says, and Marcel gives a small nod before wincing.

“I fell,” he says. “But the doctors say I can leave soon, in a few days.” Given the number of bandages he doesn’t think that’s true, but doesn’t tell Marcel. Marcel is happy right now, and he doesn’t want to make him sad or scared. This is the longest conversation he’s had with another person his age, at least one that doesn’t mostly consist of threats and screaming. Maybe they can be friends, at least until Marcel gets better.

“Marcel, did you know worms can turn into butterflies?” he asks.

“They do not!” Marcel protests, and he nods excitedly.

“I saw one! It made a weird leaf, and hid inside of it for a long time, but then it was a butterfly!”

“Oh, like caterpillars?” Marcel asks. “I’ve read about that in a book once.”

“Well I  _ saw  _ it,” he says. “Was it a good book?”

“It wasn’t really,” Marcel says. “There were lots of insects in it, but not many pictures. My dad studies bugs. What does your dad do, Jean?”

“He works here,” he lies. “He’s a doctor. Why does your dad study bugs? Aren’t they gross?”

“Not really,” Marcel says. “Lots of people think so, but if you look closely then you can see they’re very interesting.”

“Even though they’re ugly?”

“They’re not!” Marcel protests. “Some of them are very handsome, and even the ugly ones are important.”

“Yes, I think so too,” he agrees. “Marcel, do you like music?”

* * *

This is the best week of his life. Marcel is his friend, his good friend who doesn’t care what he looks like, and even though Marcel doesn’t like music yet he knows that he can change Marcel’s mind. Today is Madame Vouland’s shift, so she takes him to play the piano and he plays his very best music. He’s made a new song for Marcel, and he plays it last, just after he plays his butterfly song.

“That’s very wonderful,” Madame Vouland tells him, looking out the window instead of facing him, but he’s used to that. “Where did you hear it?”

“I made it,” he tells her proudly, and her face twists into a frown.

“Jean Louis, it’s very naughty to tell lies,” she scolds him, and on any other day he’d protest but he cannot leave the hospital room today. He must visit Marcel tonight, and ask him if he heard the music, so he puts his head down and mumbles something about having heard it from a musician who was staying there.

After she takes him back to his room he must wait for everybody to fall asleep, even though that means he has to wait  _ forever.  _ He tries to imagine himself as an explorer, maybe travelling with Marcel across a desert to find new bugs, or sailing on a ship across the ocean and fighting pirates, or climbing a mountain and discovering a secret temple inside. He even composes a new song, an adventure one about them travelling everywhere. At the end he adds some calm music, for when they return home and he’ll play the piano for Marcel and his family. And his music will be so lovely that they’ll let him stay, and although he doesn’t know what parents look like he imagines they must be very beautiful.

Finally the halls are quiet, and he makes his way through the dark hallway to Marcel’s room. “Marcel!” he whispers, stepping in and shutting the door behind him. There is no lamp on but there’s enough moonlight from the window for him to see his friend, turned away from the door. Marcel stiffens a little and doesn’t say hello like he usually does.

“Marcel, it’s me,” he says. “Did you hear the piano today?”

“Go away,” Marcel says, and his voice is small. It sounds a little like he’s been crying.

“What is it?” he asks, and Marcel hunches in on himself.

“Go away,” he repeats. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Oh,” he says. “If you’re tired I can tell you a bedtime story.” He’s heard a couple that the nurses tell to the babies, and if he forgets some parts he can just make something up. “Or I can sing you a lullaby, maybe.”

“No,” Marcel says, turning towards him. He steps back, instinctively backing away from his frown even though Marcel can’t touch him. “I don’t want you here.”

“Oh,” he says. He makes himself smile, even though his stomach is tied into knots. “That’s okay, I can come back tomorrow-”

“I don’t want you here tomorrow either!” Marcel says. “I don’t want you here ever again!” He can’t keep smiling, and his shoulders hunch as he makes himself smaller.

“Why?” he asks. Marcel can’t see him, and even if he got his sight back he can’t see through the bandages. “Did I do something wrong?”

“I asked one of the nurses who was playing the piano,” he says. “She told me that you’re a monster.”

“Marcel,” he says quickly. “That’s not true. You know it’s not true.”

“I don’t know anything about you!” he says. “Except that you lied to me-”

“I didn’t!” he protests. “I didn’t lie!”

“You pretended to be a regular boy, like me!” Marcel tries to sit up, and he is guiltily glad that Marcel’s eyes are covered. He doesn’t want to see Marcel glaring at him with the same expression he sees on everyone else.

“I am,” he says. “I’m just like you, except maybe I don’t look like you, but that’s okay, right?” His voice is starting to waver, and he hates it. He doesn’t want to cry, not when he can explain that the nurse was lying, he’s not a monster no matter how many people say it. “Some things don’t look beautiful, but they’re still good, like the caterpillar I told you about! And I made a song for you, because we’re friends-”

“We’re not friends!” Marcel says. “I hate you! I want you to leave me alone!”

“We are!” he protests. “Didn’t you say you liked talking to me, you were glad I was here? Last night you said you’d enjoy hearing me play, you’d like the music-”

“I was lying!” Marcel says. “I don’t want to be around you!” And this can’t be true, Marcel was his friend yesterday, when they laughed and told stories and he promised to listen to the music, to be his  _ friend- _

“You’re lying right now,” he says, stepping forward as his voice grows stronger. “You don’t know what I look like, and you won’t hate me just because I’m ugly because that’s not fair! You said you were my friend!”

“Don’t come near me!” Marcel spits, but he is right next to Marcel and he reaches out and grabs Marcel’s hand, the same way he’s seen other people hold hands, parents with children and married people but mostly people who are friends, but Marcel tries to pull away so he ends up holding onto his wrist very tightly. Marcel’s mouth opens in horror, and he begins to scream.

“We’re friends, Marcel!” he says, grabbing his shoulder with his other hand and holding him against the bed, and Marcel is thrashing in his grip and trying to throw him off but he won’t let him. “We’re going to be friends forever, and I’ll write you music and tell you about bugs, and if you can’t see it won’t matter-”

“STOP!” he yells. “STOP IT, DON’T TOUCH ME, GET AWAY-” And then Marcel goes still, and suddenly he begins to shake. It’s not like anything he has ever seen, small movements like Marcel’s shivering uncontrollably, and his legs begin to move and arms begin to flail. Frightened, he lets go and steps back just as the door bursts open. He realises too late that there were feet running down the hall when Marcel started to scream, and he is caught.

Nobody seems to be paying attention to him, though. Two nurses rush in, and one holds Marcel down and tells the other to get the doctor, and he wants to slip out the door but is standing there, terrified, staring at Marcel’s face as he continues to thrash and a thin line of spit begins to dribble down his cheek from his open mouth. And there’s a darker stain too, one on the back of his bandaged head, one that he didn’t notice before but now he can’t stop staring at.

The second nurse comes back with the doctor, and suddenly there’s a third nurse who notices him and recoils, and she screams for a fourth nurse to come and take him away. He struggles and tries to stay there, but there’s so much yelling and noise and the nurse’s fingernails are sharp as they dig into his shoulder and drag him away.

He doesn’t sleep that night, staring at the wall of the basement room. In the morning one of the nurses knocks on the door and informs him that he won’t be receiving any food today.

“Is Marcel okay?” he asks, wiping at the tears that have long since dried on his cheeks. He doesn’t need to be Marcel’s friend, as long as Marcel is okay he’ll play piano for him and never bother him again.

“He passed away last night,” the nurse says after a long moment of silence. Then her footsteps retreat and leave him in complete silence.

The butterfly isn’t outside his window anymore. But it’s better this way. Monsters don’t deserve friends.

**Author's Note:**

> if this made you feel things I'd love to hear about it in the comments!


End file.
